Work Text:
‘Placid’ had become inextricably linked to his being, whether he likes it or not, as the seed Lawton planted that took root in his very earth. With every fiber of his being he wishes to rip the invasive plant out, but there are three separate boxes of pizza on the Mystery Room desk that convince him otherwise. His heathen of a detective constable had pineapple on hers, and there are separate boxes for the vegetarian and meat lovers she specially ordered to assuage the eating habits of whoever made himself known at lunch.
He and the detective constable banter and debate, poring over the day’s case file or the morning paper’s crossword. He screams at the parasite until his lungs are parched, but he the man will not listen until the same word rolls off a familiar Northern tongue. How gone on ‘Placid’ is on her would be laughable if he wasn’t so close behind, but that is neither here nor there. What is, however, is the alien way the leech fills the squares with offending handwriting that is too careful for his liking and too lacking in expression for his sanity. Even if graphology is a pseudoscience, they said brainwashing was one too, yet here they both live and breathe. If the outdated analysis was to be believed by any means the evidence of this weak thing inside him bleeds into each stroke of ink or lead.
Left Slant? Reserved. Passive. Small Stature? Fearful. On the run. Wide Gaps? Issues with human connection. Light Pressure? Lacking vitality Connected letters? Not enough intuition.
All of it? Wrong.
Alfendi was once a man of action, confidence, and impulse with an Interpol agent on his arm and a holster on his hip. Fieldwork was his strength, nay, his purpose; he could determine the time of death before the officers even put up barrier tape at the scene. It had been a game to him then, and while it oftentimes still is —the alter at least has access to his brain power— things are so wildly different. The reconstruction device is a marvel of science and technology, but the notes from the on-site investigations can only do so much to stir one’s senses. The wind used to carry the odor of death on its wings and he’d hold the stickiness of a victim’s blood in his hands; now, the air is stale and his hands are bloodless. It’s so much less sensory, just because that weak, pathetic parasite can’t take it.
Still, he’s not sure Lucy could handle field work like that. With the proper training, perhaps, but there are blatant reasons that spell transfers to Scotland Yard back offices. While part of it was because the Commissioner deemed him in need of surveillance, it wasn’t the whole of it; he’s seen her file. Alfendi knows full well to trust Lucy with a gun, but clumsiness and intuition tend to get the best of her. She has the right instincts which each case they close better hones, but she needs time to investigate. In the safety of their office, she can produce results she couldn’t necessarily do onsite if her habits are any indication. And even if it can be completely stifling at times, at least Lucy is safer here from the stray bullets and the kingpins.
It’s maddening how paramount her safety is and how dear the constable had become which is one of the only things he syncs with ‘Placid’ on. He would set the world ablaze if only to keep her safe, which extreme as it is, is a plain and simple fact of their life. He’d cared for her safety as any mentor or coworker would, but Forbodium changed everything. She should have given up on him, anyone else would have, yet she didn’t. His life was forfeit then, and it is now still, but it’s in the delicate hands of the garroter, jury, and judge he would gladly let command his fate.
He can’t remember the four previous years of his life and even this past one is fairly hazy, save Lucy. She singularly provides the clarity to see through it all, setting them straight when one emerges disoriented with lapses in memory or judgment. She’s gotten used to the extensive questioning in person when a shift occurs and will leave him notes if she’s left the office, just in case. ‘‘We refiled ‘The Kitten-Shark Murders’ Cold Case. Potty wants to save it for a rainy day” or “Pick up your suit from the cleaners for Kat’s brunch. Yes, we have to go” litter the already cluttered desk with compassion —and dare he say, love— for the both of them, so neither feels lost where her presence is found.
Besides, his coworkers change when Alfendi emerges; some alter in fear of rumors spread over coffee and handheld transceivers, while others find relief in witnessing the core they adored working alongside overtake the new host that they do not. But Lucy doesn’t falter or fluctuate, she seamlessly alters communication between the present alters and doesn’t so much as flinch when he comes forth with blunt conclusions and aggressive accusations. Depending on her mood, he’s also picked up on Lucy’s preferences between the two of them. The subtle tapping of her foot during interrogations where the suspect is cornered and ‘Placid’ is far too soft on them is always music to his ears. They’d also gotten into enough disagreements that he’ll oftentimes relinquish control when she gets temperamental, so he can calm her down and provide the comfort that comes less naturally. He’s typically most appealing during midday after she’s fully woken up and before she’s ready to leave for the day, but is valued regardless, which is a stretch for many.
It’s infuriating that this parasite has become the host leaving his core but a shadow of his former self, but there is not much that can be done other than learn to live with it. Still, the urge is there. The detective inspector wants to let it wither and die from dehydration, but the leech’s levelheaded and logic-driven investigative habits enable Lucy to better provide the key insights so integral to cracking their cases. In the instability of self comes the safety and comfort that ‘Placid’ exudes to keep their suspects at bay and ease them towards that edge that Akfendi will make them plummet from, weighed down by the guilt in their veins and blood on their hands. The good cop, bad cop routine is tired as it is maddening, but it provides the results that keep the Mystery Room afloat and funded.
And it ensures he takes care of himself since Lucy has been insistent on celebratory dinners whenever they crack a case. She’s been using these work functions —which ‘Placid’ is 68.4% sure are not romantic endeavors—to make sure he’s being socialized outside of their office and ensure his only daily meal isn’t just lunchtime takeaway. His apartment has also become partially livable again since he’s taken to cleaning it, despite that lazy parasitic slob’s stubbornness. It’s due to her as well; she’s taken to coming over after dinner and putting on the most infuriatingly nonsensical crime fiction they can find on the telly. They compete to see who can solve it first and inevitably yell at the blasted thing when fictional officers’ logic clearly doesn’t add up. They stay up far too late and whenever she curls into him passed out on their sofa mid-episode, he insists that the alter add another percentage point to the mystery of Lucy’s intentions.
He’s had it solved for months now, of course, but that is to be expected. And it would be so easy to ignore all of ‘Placid’s’ inhibitions and take the reins of his life back. To uproot that which festers and further grows within his body into its own person with distinct beliefs and memories. To force the parasite into the same mind prison he had been shackled to for four years and for once, the true core could permanently lead once more. He’d be far more efficient in all his affairs as the ace detective inspector he was before Forbodium once more. But the alter in the very earth of him has made him a different person, even if a majority of it was without his express consent. Even if all the bits don’t fit, he’s a changed man and Lucy’s a better detective constable for having them both. And that thought alone assuages but for a fleeting moment each time, that it is all worth it.